CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGE OF BASE.

“I believe this is the exact spot; yes, I am sure it is. Drop your anchor, Ashley, so that the bow will point up-stream,” says Barker, as he grasps a long pole with a hook at one end, and prepares to explore the bed of Wild River.

Ashley lets go the rock that does duty as an anchor and remarks ruefully, when all but a yard of the rope is run out: “This is deep-sea fishing. There is over twelve feet of water here.”

“Thunder! And mud enough to bury a man-of-war,” grunts the detective.

After fifteen minutes of earnest but ineffectual groping in the slimy bed of the stream Barker throws the pole from him and remarks: “No use.”

“Can’t the river be dredged?”

“Yes; with a force of men and a steam dredger, and the whole township looking on and asking questions. We can do nothing this morning. Up anchor and away! I could use a little breakfast.”

“By the way,” observes Ashley, as the two men walk back to the hotel, “in all your talk last night you said nothing of that locket, with the miniatures of the Hathaway sisters, which was stolen from the watch-chain of the murdered cashier the night of the killing.”

“Do you know it was stolen on that night?” asks the detective.

“We must assume that it was until we know otherwise, I suppose,” returns Ashley. “If the missing locket is found in the possession of any one of our suspects it would be a strong link, would it not?”

“Very likely, but we must find our man first. Shall you be ready to leave for New York to-night?”

“Sure thing.”

“Good. We must strike the trail there and follow it, if need be, to the end of the world.”

Ashley has been in Raymond only two weeks, but already he begins to sigh for the pleasures and palaces of gay, crowded and babel-voiced New York.

“Hang it!” he growls to Barker, as he packs his valise, “this Vermont country is all right, but the natives are atrocious. They know no literature except those provincial Boston dailies and the current paper-covered rot; no music except Sousa’s marches, no art except the colored supplements to the Sunday newspapers and no conversation higher than horse, hay and village gossip.”

“Your criticism is too sweeping,” replies the detective. “There is more culture in Raymond, in proportion to its population, than there is in New York, I’ll wager. And where in that politics-ridden city will you find another woman rivaling your fervid description of Miss Louise Hathaway?”

“Ah, she is a rose in a wilderness. And that reminds me that I have promised myself the pleasure of a farewell call upon her,” says Ashley.

“Farewell?” repeats the detective, skeptically. “You will not see the last of Miss Hathaway to-day unless I am much mistaken. I have known of more than one lover of statuary who failed to be content with the marble and warmed it into living, breathing womanhood.”

“Nonsense!” laughs Ashley. “I shall live and die a bachelor.”

But he spends fully ten minutes in tying his cravat, brushes his hair with unusual care, gives his mustache an extra twist, and saunters up to the Hathaway homestead in an expectant frame of mind. Foolish Jack Ashley! In after years he will smile at the recollection of the thoughts that flit through his busy mind to-day.

Just as he turns into the path leading to the Hathaway residence Miss Hathaway is stepping out upon the veranda. She sees him and smiles in her grave way.

“Good afternoon,” she says to her visitor. He answers, uncovering his head.

“I called to say au revoir. I leave for New York to-night.”

She leads the way to the reception room. After they have taken their seats near the open window she answers:

“You will return? Your work here on—on the case is not yet finished?”

“No; we shall have occasion to visit Raymond more than once before the mystery which shrouds the bank case is dispelled. It is going to be a long chase, I fear, Miss Hathaway. But I hope to come to you some day and tell you of its successful end.”

“I hope so,” she replies dreamily, her thoughts far away.

“You have heard nothing more from your sister?”

“Nothing.” Her look is frank.

“I can tell you nothing of our plans,” says Ashley, “further than that our principal endeavor will be to discover Ernest Stanley.”

“Ernest Stanley?” repeats Miss Hathaway. “Oh, the young man who was pardoned from State prison on Memorial Day. Do you think he committed the crime?”

“Frankly, no. But we believe that he knows something of its perpetration. In other words, we regard him as the key to the mystery.”

“And Derrick Ames?” questions Miss Hathaway, with the anxious expression of yesterday in her gaze.

“Derrick Ames must be found, also. If you could give me any information—”

“I can tell you nothing,” she replies hurriedly.

“Ralph Felton is another absentee whose presence is earnestly desired,” he resumes.

“You say you do not believe that Stanley is the guilty man. Does it, then, lie between Ralph Felton and—”

“And Derrick Ames?” finishes Ashley. “Not necessarily. There is another, but for excellent reasons I should prefer not to mention the name. Have you any plans for the future?”

“No definite plans. Mr. Cyrus Felton has been appointed executor of the estate and after that has been settled I shall probably make my home at his house.”

“At Cyrus Felton’s?” murmurs Ashley, in such a peculiar voice that Miss Hathaway looks at him in surprise.

“Yes; that is the only place I can go to at present. He has long been a friend of the family.”

“Have you no relatives—in Boston, New York, or elsewhere?”

“No near relatives. It will not be very long ere I shall have to make a home for myself. I am told that the estate will settle for very little,” confesses Miss Hathaway, with a red spot in each pale cheek. Ashley understands and regards her sympathetically.

There is a short, somewhat embarrassing silence. Then Ashley rises regretfully. He says:

“I am afraid it must be good-bye—or, perhaps, au revoir. I shall hope to see you again before the summer is gone.”

“I trust so,” Miss Hathaway responds, this time quite cordially, as she gives him her hand at parting, and Ashley holds it an instant longer than ordinary courtesy calls for. And as he walks slowly away from the house he carries with him the vision of a tall girl, with a pure white face and sad blue eyes, into which the sunlight will some day come again.

At night he and Barker take the Montreal express for New York.

* * * * *

Summer drifts into autumn and autumn into winter. Life goes on much the same in Raymond. The Hathaway mystery gradually fades from public interest, and it is set down as a crime that will never be explained.

The Raymond National Bank has closed its doors. The robbery of its vault was a blow from which it found it impossible to recover.

No tidings are received of Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway or of Ralph Felton. None, unless they are in the keeping of the silent, stern-faced Cyrus Felton or the beautiful girl with the sad blue eyes who abides under his roof.

Every Sunday, in rain or in sunshine, mid heat or cold, Louise Hathaway may be seen ascending the hill in the little cemetery by which Wild River sings its way, her mission of love to deposit a basket of flowers upon a grave at the head of which stands a plain white shaft bearing, besides the name and dates, the simple inscription, “Faithful Unto Death.”